All That and Then Some

ALICE - Cold As Ice

I TIPTOE WITH EXAGGERATED care into our dark bedroom. It's well past midnight; Vic's alarm is due to go off in less than 6 hours (ugh) and Angel's portable crib is parked in our room (again) while her father plays truth kamikaze with her other father in Montreal.

I peek in on her as I creep toward the bed. She is sleeping with that particular abandon only children are capable of — arms thrown back, mouth agape. I smile goofily down at her even though she's fast asleep. Boy, I would love another baby, I catch myself thinking. So cute. So snuggly.

Then I remember that I've been coated with maple syrup and nearly burned alive over the course of my short stint as a substitute parent this week.

Maybe not.

I climb quietly into my side of the bed, shivering against the shock of cold sheets. My husband's furnace-y warmth is emanating from the other side so I inch toward him with cold hands outstretched like he's an apres-ski bonfire. I try to slip myself into a spoon position without waking him but my cold legs make him jump. Since he's already disturbed, I take the opportunity to snake my icy hands around his torso.

"Get off," he mumbles in his half-sleep.

"But I'm cold," I whisper against his bare shoulder blade.

He physically shakes me off and pulls the duvet between us. "Quit it. I'm sleeping," he says before his breath immediately goes back to a regular, deep rhythm.

Rude, I think.

I lie in the dark with my cold hands shoved into my armpits and look up at the (slightly spinning) ceiling crack which is still there, and still an indication of nothing or something, and wonder if Meghan Markle ever gets the shove from Prince Harry for having cold limbs.

I'll bet not.

Unable to sleep and squiffy from too much wine, I reach over for my phone and send @JosstheBoss a reply.

WALKING THROUGH THE DOORS of the green logo-ed chain on the main street feels like a betrayal. I haven't been in one of these since our own cafe opened. I tell myself this is a fact-finding mission and step into the snaking lineup (social distancing not being enforced, I notice).

I can't believe how busy it is in here. Every table is taken and a literal crowd has formed at the barista's counter with people patiently waiting for their name to be called. Customers with phones flashing cut through the waiting crowd to retrieve drinks they didn't have to wait for thanks to the wonders of mobile ordering.

When it's finally my turn at the cash register, I greet the young man with a neighbourly hello.

I can't tell if he even smiles back under his mask, but he clearly has no time for pleasantries.

"What can we get you today?"

"Ummmm.... " I say, just now talking a long, slow look up at the menu behind his head.

He drums his fingers just lightly, frizzing with the anxious energy all teens have when they're not locked into their phone screen. I don't take it personally.

"I'll try a large vanilla latte, please," I say finally.

"We don't have large. Grandus or Venuti?"

"Pardon?"

He rolls his eyes and reaches for two empty cups. One gigantic and the other enormous.

"Oh," I say and point at the merely gigantic one.

"Do you have oat milk?" I say smugly, feeling certain that they won't be ready to cater to my edgy request.

"Of course. Two dollars extra."